


broken-down melody

by EARTHT0M4RS



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentioned Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, idk what else to tag, no beta read we die like tommyinnit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EARTHT0M4RS/pseuds/EARTHT0M4RS
Summary: Maybe he wouldn’t be seated with his brother in the dark void that was the afterlife, with a worn-down and badly-tuned guitar in hand, humming the lyrics the same song he had nine years ago now, for the first and last time.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	broken-down melody

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awhrea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awhrea/gifts).



> i was listening to rejoice by ajj earlier today, annndddd the lovely rea suggested that i write something like this, and it gave me a bit of inspiration :] i speedran this in like six hours lmao

A roaring storm pounded against the windows. The winds were enraged, and, with it, the downpour was relentless. The fireplace nearby flickered slowly, the orange glow of the dancing flames illuminating the dim interior of the cottage. The warmth it effused caused the window panes to fog up, and the droplets of rain raced down to the sill.

Within the cozy abode, there was the soft creaking of wooden steps paired with the sounds of tentative footsteps, and the faint whisper of conversation, the voices muffled by the walls between them. 

“...really have to go now, Wil.”

“It’s dangerous!”

“I’ve handled worse.” 

“But—”

“No _‘buts,’_ Wilbur.”

“Dad—” 

A _thud_ echoed throughout the room; it seemed as though the owner of one of the voices had slammed their hands down on something abruptly, successfully bringing the other to silence. 

“You heard me. We have to go. This is unavoidable.”

No protests came after that, but the atmosphere around them was tense with anger and unspoken objections. 

“We’ll be alright, Wil,” a different voice soothed timidly, “like Phil said. He’s handled far worse.”

A hum, and presumably a nod followed the statement.

“I know, it’s just…” 

The words trailed off into nothing, although, it didn’t seem like Wilbur even had to conclude whatever he’d wanted to say.

“You worry,” Phil finished for him, “and that’s fine. That’s normal. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

The man’s voice was soft, gentle, and laced with such care and love that only few could understand.

A shaky exhale, and a mumble of _‘yes.’_

“Thank you.” The smile could be heard in his words. “Thank you, Wil. We’ll be back by dawn. I promise. Why don’t you go back to sleep, alright?”

The answer must’ve been nonverbal, as silence fell back over the trio, filled by the occasional rustles of movements or padding of footsteps moving about. 

The sound of a door creaking open shattered the stillness of the room, followed by the low rumbling of thunder in the distance and the patter of rain against the panels of the house. 

“We’ll be back,” Phil repeated. “Love you, Wil.” 

The floorboards groaned with their movements. 

There was a beat of silence, and then the door slammed shut, leaving the teen standing alone in the middle of their living room with a lost expression. 

He hated it when Phil did that; left with Techno in the middle of the night, with little to no explanation of where the hell they were headed, and would leave Wilbur with more questions than answers when they’d return at the crack of dawn, bearing black eyes and bruises.

“Wilby?”

The voice was soft and barely audible, but in the silence of the house, it might as well have been a blaring alarm. Wilbur’s head snapped up at the familiarity of the whisper; _why was he up at this hour?_

The stiffness leaked out of his posture as he turned towards the source of the noise; as expected, it was a child, rubbing at his eyes with his palms and yawning, with a forest green blanket clutched under one arm. 

“Tommy,” he murmured, “hey, big man. What’re you doing up?”

The child paused at the question, chewing absentmindedly on his bottom lip. 

Wilbur sighed, dismissing it with a wave of his hand; it isn’t like he could expect a seven year old to offer a full explanation as to why he was awake at two in the morning. 

The boy seemed to understand, shuffling quietly into the room. Tommy had socks on, his feet moving quietly over the wood as he made his way over to the teen, immediately leaning in to him, face buried in his side; he was strangely tall for a boy of his age, but, then again, so was Wilbur, resting at a whopping six foot four at fifteen years old. 

Wilbur swept a hand through the boys curls, and Tommy leaned further into his side at the action. 

“Are you tired, Toms?”

A meek shake of his head. 

The teen arched an amused eyebrow, but didn’t argue otherwise. 

“Where did - where did dad and Techno go?” he asked, a large yawn interrupting him mid-sentence - that caused Wilbur to withhold a smile - and glanced up at his brother. 

He huffed, gnawing at the inside of his cheek and trying his hardest to not shy away from Tommy’s apprehensive gaze.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, “he wouldn’t say.”

The boy’s face contorted into a pout, “he never does.” 

His voice held a large amount of displeasure, and Wilbur might’ve been alarmed if he hadn’t known where Tommy’s anger was coming from, because he felt that way, too, and hadn’t thought about it _too_ much, but the fact that a _seven year old_ was just as aware of it as he was?

Well, that spoke for itself. 

“I know,” he frowned, “I know. I don’t like it either, but I’m not sure what to do about it yet. Here, why don’t we sit down, alright?”

Tommy nodded, breaking away from his gentle grasps and shuffling towards the sofa. Wilbur simply climbed over the back of it, flopping down on one end and drawing his knees to his chest, leaving enough room for Tommy to lie down if he needed to; it was incredibly late, after all. 

The child shifted, fisting two ends of the blanket together in his hands and pulling it over his head. Wilbur remained still at his end of the couch, watching the flames of the fire dance around one another, taking care to not make a sudden move to jolt him awake in the case that he would be falling asleep.

“Wil?”

“Mhm?”

“Can you, um,” he paused, his mouth remaining somewhat agape; it was clear by the look in his eyes that his thoughts were racing. Wilbur nudged him gently in the side with his foot, gesturing for him to continue. “Can you sing to me?”

He eyed him, subtly arching an eyebrow in his direction, “I thought you hated it when I sang? You’re always screaming over me.”

Tommy bit back a shy smile and buried the lower half of his face into his blanket. Wilbur nearly chuckled at the sight. 

“Guitar or no guitar?” 

Tommy responded with little hesitation, “guitar.” 

He nodded, and moved around in order to grab his guitar from where it had been set last, leaning against the side of the couch. He shifted, turning to face the child properly; Tommy had scooched closer to him, leaning forward with wide and eager eyes as he began toying with the strings, making sure it was properly tuned before he started playing.

“Right,” he hummed, “what do you want me to play?” 

Tommy considered this for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his blanket, “uh, anything is fine.”

Wilbur nodded, wracking his mind for songs he’s heard before, or one of his own.

“Any certain requirements?” he teased, lowering his voice purposefully with the intentions of coming off as more mysterious; it seemed to work, as Tommy hid another giggle in his blanket.

“No,” he shook his head. 

“Okay…” he sighed, leaning further into the cushions of the sofa.

Another minute of silence passed, before the soft thrum of the music began floating through the air, the melody vibrating deep into the walls and floor of the house. 

With the warmth of the fireplace, the calming sounds of the music, the dim lighting, and the blanket wrapped around the child’s shoulders, Wilbur was surprised that he hadn’t drifted off yet; in all honesty, the tranquility was enough to make _him_ drowsy. 

Tommy was still watching him with a committed gaze, as though he was waiting for something, and then Wilbur remembered that, _right, he wanted him to sing._

He cleared his throat, and the words came to him easier than he expected. 

_“Rejoice, despite this world will hurt you.”_

Tommy sat up a little, listening attentively. 

_“And, rejoice, despite this world will kill you.”_

Wilbur knew Tommy. Of course he did. He was his brother. He knew him. He knew that words wouldn’t phase him, especially if they were simply lyrics to a song.

_“And, rejoice, despite the fact this world will tear you to shreds.”_

Maybe if he knew him a little better, though.

_“Rejoice, because you’re trying your best.”_

Maybe if he’d cared for him a little better.

_“And, rejoice, the bed you sleep in is burning.”_

Maybe if he’d tried a little harder.

_“Oh, rejoice, the sky is fucking falling.”_

Maybe if he hadn’t been a traitor.

_“Oh, rejoice, the world we know is turning.”_

Maybe if he hadn’t turned into Phil, caring for one thing and putting it above everything else.

_“Oh, rejoice, your father’s been calling.”_

Maybe if that thing hadn’t been power. 

_“Rejoice although this world will devastate you.”_

Maybe if he’d stuck around a little more after he passed, after his brother had been exiled. 

_“And rejoice although this world will penetrate you.”_

Maybe, if he’d just been _better,_ they wouldn’t be here right now.

_“And rejoice although you will not survive.”_

Maybe he wouldn’t be seated with his brother in the dark void that was the afterlife, with a worn-down and badly-tuned guitar in hand, humming the lyrics the same song he had nine years ago now, for the first and last time. 

_“Rejoice, you’ll never make it out alive.”_

**Author's Note:**

> consider following my twitter @EARTHT0M4RS ? i tend to post updates about my fics/wips there :D


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